Chapter 29
POV: Camille?
^…A few days later…^
When his message came, I almost deleted it without even reading it.
It was just one word.
Dinner.
I repeated it within my mind.
Dinner.
I stared at it far too long as I tapped my phone against my desk and weighed the risk against the ache in my chest.
I had sworn I was done with him and that I wouldn’t let him pull me back into his orbit. And yet, the part of me that had spent days replaying his words, his expression, the quiet honesty in his voice—wanted to know if this time it was different.
So I said yes.
And I regretted it almost instantly.
By the time I stood before his penthouse that evening, and believe me I was totally on edge.
I almost turned back twice before pressing the elevator button.
The doors opened, and there he was.
Michael.
Just a black plain long sleeve t-shirt with his sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked so…casual.
“Camille.” He greeted me as he usually did, calm, even toned.
I swallowed as I looked him over. “Michael.”
“Come in.”
I blinked at the table decorated with white candles. It looked..romantic.
I became nervous again.
“You cooked,” I said, staring at the table.
“I told you I knew my way around the kitchen,” he said, almost smiling as he set some freshly cut bread down on the table. “I wanted tonight to be simple.”
I raised a brow. “Simple isn’t exactly your style.”
“No,” he admitted, meeting my gaze just for a moment, intensity lingering between us. “But I’m learning.”
We ate in silence mostly and at times, we spoke of safe topics at first—the case fallout, board meetings and the city’s endlessly rainy days as of late.
Finally, I set down my glass of wine and let out a heavy breath. “You didn’t invite me here to talk about quarterly reports. So what is this, really?”
His eyes lifted to mine, as he looked at me over.
“This is me asking for one last chance,” he paused, thinking, finding his words.
“I’ve spent my life controlling everything. Business, money, people, you. It was the only way I knew to protect myself. But control isn’t love, Camille and if I keep treating it like it is, I’ll lose the only person who ever mattered to me.”
There was a beat of silence between the two us–heavy and dense.
Then he said, “I don’t want to lose you.”
I wanted to believe him.
God, I did.
But the past still lingered within my mind.
“Michael…” I shook my head, confused. “We can’t pretend the hurt didn’t happen. The lies, the manipulation…it doesn’t just vanish out of nowhere.”
He leaned back in his chair, studying me. “I’m not asking you to forget. I’m asking you to choose—to decide if what we have is worth fighting through the pain for. Because I’ll fight, Camille, I’ll fight every day, if that’s what it takes.”
Silence stretched between us again.
And then he said it.
The words I was dying to hear.
“I love you.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. A physical blow.
Michael Vanderbilt just looked at me as though the world depended on my answer.
And for the first time, I saw him stripped bare of every wall he’d ever built in order to keep me out.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Say something,” he whispered.
I rushed out. “I’m terrified.”
“So am I,” he admitted. “But I’d rather face that fear with you than spend my life safe and empty without you in it, Camille.”
I fought back the tears. “You make me crazy, Michael. You infuriate me and half the time I don’t even know if I hate you or—”
“Or what?” He asked.
“Or if I can’t breathe without you,” I whispered.
The silence that followed was electric.
He rose and stopped just before me.
He didn’t pull me up, he didn’t demand that I come towards him. He just held out his hand, waiting for me to choose.
He was offering me a choice.
And I put my hand in his.
The first kiss was a slow unraveling. There was no battle and no dominance.
His hands cradled my face and mine fisted in his shirt.
He leaned into me, forehead resting against mine. “Camille, I love you.”
I shuddered. “Then show me.”
Then he pulled me closer and pressed his body to mine. His fingers traced lines on arms, shoulders, backs—memorizing, discovering, connecting.
Time slowed as we moved together.
He whispered my name against my lips, letting it linger like a prayer, and I felt my defenses melt.
His lips on my neck, his hands along my back, my fingers threading into his hair—every touch stretched, lingering, and savoring the space between us.
Then he was inside me.
And this time it wasn’t fucking. It wasn’t just sex.
We made love.
Together. As one.
As if we belonged that way.
His thrusts were slow, deliberate, and soft. He wanted me to know I was loved. He wanted me to know he was serious about this—about us.
Time stretched between us.
It was messy, real, alive—it was an exchange of vulnerability and trust that left us both breathless and without words.
When we finally rested, my head against the inside of his arm, I felt rested. I felt as if this felt…right.
His arm was around me, anchoring me to him.
This felt…real.
And for the first time, the choice wasn’t about contracts or conditions. It was about whether I was willing to risk my heart again.
And in that moment….I chose him.
“I love you, Michael.” I whispered to him, wondering if he was asleep and even heard.
His arm tightened around my body, pulling me closer to him. “I love you, Camille and more than love, I trust you. I trust this and I trust in us.”